


Angels for Nothin' and Water for Free

by Zanne



Category: Supernatural, due South
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-07
Updated: 2011-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-19 21:50:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zanne/pseuds/Zanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam get detained in Chicago by an officer with his own set of unusual partners.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angels for Nothin' and Water for Free

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to[](http://just-ruth.livejournal.com/profile)[ **just_ruth**](http://just-ruth.livejournal.com/) for beta-ing! This was written for [](http://brigid-tanner.livejournal.com/profile)[**brigid_tanner**](http://brigid-tanner.livejournal.com/) , who won my services at the [](http://help-chile.livejournal.com/profile)[**help_chile**](http://help-chile.livejournal.com/)  auction She was intrigued by my mention of a _Due South_ crossover idea I had, so...here it is! Admittedly, some things are just a _tiny_ bit different than we last left them in Chicago. I'm blaming the Apocalypse for the differences. Kripke owns _Supernatural_ and Haggis owns _Due South_. Title from Dire Straits.

  
Detective Stanley Raymond Kowalski barely looked up from his paperwork when Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police took position by his desk with his deaf wolf Diefenbaker lying at his feet. Instead, Ray took a quick sip from the Styrofoam cup sitting on the abandoned mouse-pad and wrinkled his nose at the bitter flavor. He blindly reached for the bag of M&M’s in the top drawer, tossing a few into the cup before refocusing on the papers stacked haphazardly across the surface of his desk.

“Frase, whaddaya doin’ here?” Ray grumbled, sticking a pencil in his mouth and biting down as he reached for another form lying under a half-eaten doughnut. He brushed off the crumbs, ignoring the grease stain that created an almost perfect circle on the corner of the sheet, and spat the pencil back onto his desk.

Catching the scent of coconut glaze, Diefenbaker sat up, waiting for his chance.

“We had plans for lunch, Ray,” Fraser said politely. He leaned forward, hat tucked under his arm, and tapped at the edge of the calendar hidden on the desk beneath an open bag of Jolly Ranchers. “I even wrote it on your schedule.”

Ray grunted, shoving the bag aside to see ‘Lunch with F.’ written neatly across the page as he snatched for the rolling pencil with his free hand. “Oh, I thought that was Frannie. Told her I couldn’t make it. No wonder she didn’t know what I was talkin’ about.”

Attention successfully diverted, Diefenbaker settled his paws on the edge of Ray’s desk and grabbed the doughnut, quickly trotting off to hide under a nearby desk to enjoy his snack.

“You still regularly lunch with Francesca?” Fraser asked.

Ray frowned at Diefenbaker’s retreating figure, watching him as he disappeared behind a drawer. “Your wolf just stole my doughnut.” He stuck the pencil behind his ear, displacing the one that was already there and making it fall to the floor to join its compatriots cluttered around the foot of his chair. “Can’t make it, Frase. Gotta get the paperwork through on this bust I made this morning.” Irritation flashed across Ray’s face, and he said, “Can you believe it? I caught two guys impersonating priests and stealing water from the church font. Possibly involved in a little B&E, graffiti…and grave desecration, if we can connect ‘em to the mess we found behind the church.”

“Can you steal holy water?” Fraser asked, arching an eyebrow slightly to indicate his confusion. “Isn’t it left out for public use?”

“Whatever, Fraser. It just ain’t kosher.”

Ray sighed, idly tapping his fingers to his own beat, his expressive face wrinkled in annoyance. “With the server down, we’ve gotta go old school and fill out everything by hand. They don’t even make paperwork for this kind of shit anymore. I had to call up the 23rd to see if they had any of the old forms left! Buncha freaks….” Even Ray’s spiky blond hair was standing upright in indignation, looking every bit as pissed off as it possibly could as he glared at Fraser, as if it were Fraser’s fault that Chicago was extra full of crazy today. Ray bit down on another pencil, mumbling, “Where are Huey and Dewey when you need ‘em?”

“I saw Detective Huey and Detective Dewey sitting down for lunch at Marcelli’s,” Fraser observed. “The fettuccini looked excellent.”

Diefenbaker’s head popped out at the mention of lunch, and he trotted over to sit at Fraser’s side.

“Typical. He magically shows up when you mention food,” Ray huffed, leaning down until he was face-to-face with the wolf. “Read my lips, Dief. Keep your paws _off_ my desk.”

Diefenbaker whined, his head drooping in apology, but Ray ignored the act and grabbed his coffee cup, taking a long swig before he bounced to his feet. “Ok, Fraser, you’re comin’ with me to interrogate these weirdoes. The short one is a smartass. You can blindside his partner with an Inuit story while I give the little guy a few kicks to the head.”

“Ray,” Fraser began, hesitating at the desk as his friend stomped towards the interrogation rooms. “You know I cannot willingly participate in….”

“Forget it, Fraser. Once you meet ‘im, you’ll wanna kick him in the head, too.” 

                                                                                 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ray led them into the private annex attached to one of the smaller interrogation rooms, where they watched the cuffed men in black clerics’ outfits through the two-way mirror. The slightly shorter one with the brush cut was tilting back and forth in his chair, whistling something from the way his lips were pursed; his taller, shaggy-haired partner sat slumped beside him, arms awkwardly crossed over his lower belly due to the shortness of the cuffs, and scowled at the tabletop. Every time the shorter one’s chair would thump flat, their shoulders would brush, making the taller one rock in his seat. The constant motion seemed to be working the edge off both men, until the one with the seemingly perpetual frown loosened up a little and nudged his partner with his elbow, making the other man break out into a grin.

“We’re keepin’ ‘em in here. All the interrogation rooms are full; with the paperwork back-up, the cells are at capacity.” Ray frowned in their general direction, feet shuffling with nervous energy as he contemplated all of the extra paperwork awaiting him today. “This keeps up and the ACLU will be makin’ us keep the crooks at the Ritz so they don’t bruise their delicate elbows from overcrowding.”

Ray sighed, his entire body deflating before he stretched to his full height and arched his back to work out the kinks from the long morning at his desk. “I hope they fix the damn computers soon.”

“They look…familiar,” Fraser mused. “But you Americans all look very much alike.”

“Very funny, Frase,” Ray said, his neck cracking as he twisted it sharply. “Big one’s Eddie Clarke. Little One’s Phil Taylor.”

“The rhythm guitarist and drummer from Motorhead?” Fraser leaned closer, squinting through the glass, and Diefenbaker rested his paws on the frame to peer into the small room, tail wagging. Ray looked at Diefenbaker, one eyebrow arched high, as the wolf gave out an excited yip, and Fraser explained, “He’s a big fan.”

At Ray’s slow blink, Fraser ducked his head, a sheepish smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “My grandparents’ library once received a shipment of old _Rolling Stone_ magazines as a donation. They were very informative and…hip.”

“Huh, so they’re aliases?” Ray asked, and stuffed a piece of gum into his mouth, Diefenbaker’s disappointed growl underscoring his observation. “Rat bastards. Can’t trust crooks these days. I’ll go in and warm ‘em up. You wait for my signal.”

“No kicking anyone in the head, Ray,” Fraser warned.

“I ain’t makin’ any promises, Frase,” Ray shouted over his shoulder as the door slammed closed behind him.

Fraser watched through the window as Ray stormed into the room next door like a whirlwind, his small blustering figure seeming to amuse the elder of the two men, if the sudden crinkling around the man’s eyes was anything to go by.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Dean and Samuel Winchester,” came a gruff voice from behind Fraser. “I haven’t seen them since they were boys.”

“Dad?” Fraser asked in surprise, turning to see his father sitting on the table, mending a broken snowshoe as he glanced through the window at the two men with Ray. “You know them?”

“I’m a little surprised the older one went for the priesthood. He was a bit of a ladies’ man, even at that age,” Fraser’s dead father mused, biting through some twine.

“I do not believe they have been officially sanctified by Rome,” Fraser corrected. “They were arrested for stealing holy water and are suspects in assorted other petty crimes.”

“You can’t steal holy water,” Fraser’s father dismissed immediately. “That’s why it’s there.”

“I informed Ray of that, but he must have had good reason for their arrest,” Fraser defended his friend, before returning to their original conversation. “As it is unlikely they are priests, it’s far more likely that they were impersonating the clergy.”

“Then they must’ve been hunting.” Fraser’s father shrugged, reaching down to tie the snowshoe around his foot.

“In Chicago?”

“Some things prefer the city – easier to cull the herd.”

“How did you know these two young men?” Fraser asked, curiosity edging his tone as he watched Ray’s demonstrative gesticulations through the window. He winced when one such gesture appeared to translate to something less than polite.

“Their father helped me on a case once. Stubborn bastard. I wanted to push him off a glacier, but then what would have happened to his boys? They were illegal aliens, coming into the country as they did. I don’t think the Northwest Territories could have survived those boys running around like little hellions….”

Fraser’s father awkwardly stomped over to the two-way mirror, the snowshoes making his steps wide and unsteady in the small room. He frowned thoughtfully at the glass, muttering, “They were oddly close as boys. Now look at them. If I didn’t know any better….”

“Dad,” Fraser interrupted, “can we continue this later? I think Ray may be signaling.” He observed Ray’s snapping fingers with a bit of hesitation, unsure if it were the intended signal or not.

“‘ _If you didn’t know any better’_ what?” an even gruffer voice urged, disrupting Fraser’s train of thought. “I’d like to hear what you were going to say, Robert.”

“Oh, dear.” Fraser covertly eyed the scruff-bearded man that was now glaring at his father from across the room. The arrival of another person that was able to talk to his dead father heralded nothing good.

“No need to get testy, Johnathon,” Fraser’s father scoffed. “You know I’m right. It’s strange!”

“ _My_ boys are oddly close?!” John huffed, stalking up to stand beside Fraser’s dad, crossing his arms over his chest and making himself look twice as large. “Have you taken a look at Big Red and Juicy Fruit? Now _that’s_ strange.”

“We’re resorting to name calling, are we? Fine. Mike and Ike are -.”

Fraser coughed politely, earning the attention of both men as they turned to face him, faces glowering. He took the time to observe the new arrival, and was reminded of nothing less than a grumpy bear – all furry grumble and bluster, with claws that could come out and skin you at a moment’s notice. His heavy army jacket, flannel shirt, and jeans were much like what Fraser had seen on hunters in the North, and small lumps under the fabric hinted at hidden weaponry.

He’d probably taken down a caribou or two in his day, if what his father had said about hunting was true.

“Excuse me, sir, but I’d like to introduce myself. My name is Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father and, for reasons which don't need exploring at this juncture, I have remained, attached as liaison to the Canadian consulate….”

“Yeah, yeah,” John Winchester said with a wave of his hand. “You’re Robert’s boy. He showed me some pictures once.” He eyed Fraser with more care, adding, “The big red apple didn’t fall far from the hard-headed, gnarled old tree, does it?”

As his father aimed another glare in John’s direction, Fraser gave him a slight nod, noting from his posture that John had probably served in the military at some point. “I take it that you are the father of these two men?” Fraser asked, tilting his head towards the interrogation room, where Ray’s signaling was becoming less subtle.

“Talk about apples with criminal records not falling far from their irritating and ham-fisted tree…,” Fraser’s father grumbled. “ _Americans_.”

John ignored Fraser’s father, instead focusing on the two men in the next room. “I am,” he admitted to Fraser, the hard lines of his face softening for just a moment, before his armor snapped back in place. “They can’t be here. They’ve got work to do.”

“That’s no excuse for breaking the law,” Fraser replied.

The Winchester man just snorted, rolling his eyes at Robert. “I remember now why I found you so annoying.”

“He doesn’t know,” Fraser’s father defended, sending another frown in John’s direction.

“Know what?”

“Anything,” John said succinctly, his mouth twitching with amusement as Fraser’s partner stuck his face against the mirror and mouthed, _You comin’ in, Frase?_ against the glass.

“Hush, John, you’re not helping.” Fraser’s father turned to face his son and said, “But he’s right, Benton. They need to be let out.”

“If they’re kept here much longer, they’ll be found,” John added, his voice taking on a harder edge.

“Found by whom?”

“Everybody who’s looking. You might as well put up a neon sign!”

The conversation was interrupted when the door opened and Ray poked his head in, shouting, “God-dammit, Fraser! When a man signals, you hustle your ass in for back-up!”

“Understood,” Fraser said, carefully arranging his hat on his head. “My apologies, Ray. I’m afraid I got a little distracted.”

“Come on,” Ray insisted, and gestured Fraser into the hall, Diefenbaker tailing closely. “The little guy is a stubborn bastard. Y’sure I can’t kick him in the head?”

“Quite, Ray.”

Ray opened the door to the interrogation room, letting Fraser walk in first before following quickly behind. They stopped short, the door swinging closed behind them, noting the presence of another man in the already overcrowded room. Diefenbaker whuffed in welcome and trotted over to sniff the man’s dangling hand, giving it an appreciative lick.

The man in the trenchcoat blinked slowly, taking in the appearance of the Mountie, the police officer, and the wolf with minimal disturbance to his expression.

“I like the threads,” ‘Phil’ said, eyeing Fraser’s bright red uniform. “I didn’t realize there was a parade today.” Fraser shifted his chest strap under the man’s scrutiny, wishing he’d had time to adjust his lanyard before coming in.

“We must go,” the newcomer told Ray, ignoring Diefenbaker’s insistent licking. His intense blue-eyed gaze made Ray fidget in discomfort. “We have been delayed too long.”

“Who in the hell are you?” Ray demanded. “How’d you get in here?”

“He’s our lawyer,” ‘Eddie’ said quickly, sitting upright in his seat. “Mr…uh…Castiel.”

Benton gazed at the newcomer steadily, observing his rumpled appearance and the fine growth of stubble on his cheeks, a deeper, underlying scent of…was that gamefowl?…tinting the air. Mr. Castiel certainly didn’t appear to be a man of the law, but those detained by the Chicago police did tend to run the gamut of the legal profession when it came to their lawyers.

Fraser’s observations were cut short by a choked off laugh behind him, and an amused, “Angels and ministers of grace defend us!”

“Well, we’ve got the angel and the ministers, all right,” John chuckled. “Now uncuff my boys.”

Fraser gave his two shadows a reproving glare to keep them quiet, but they were too busy chortling at their joke to pay him any mind. So, instead, Fraser turned to the man claiming to be the Winchesters’ lawyer and said, “Mr. Castiel, what an unusual name. I’m surprised to see you here, since it’s merely Monday.” The corner of Fraser’s lip twitched only slightly as he looked to Ray for follow-up.

When the room fell silent, Ray interrupted the awkwardness by clearing his throat and explaining, “This is my partner. He’s Canadian.”

Fraser felt the need to explain, and whispered loudly in Ray’s direction, “Castiel is the name of the angel of Thursday, Ray. And today is only Monday.”

“Was that a joke?” Castiel asked, his expression furrowed almost enough to be called perplexed.

“I think it was supposed t’be,” Ray admitted with a puzzled look at Fraser.

“I see. It was…amusing.” His gaze went to Dean as if for confirmation, before his eyes fell to the wolf still nibbling on his fingers. “Please stop doing that.”

“My apologies,” Fraser said, as Dief stopped his ministrations and sat back on his haunches, staring upwards into Castiel’s face. Fraser gestured for Diefenbaker to come sit beside him, and the wolf came reluctantly, gaze still fixed on the Winchester’s lawyer. “Have you eaten chicken recently? He does love fried foods….”

“So does Dean,” Castiel announced.

“Hey!”  
   
"I mean Phil," their lawyer corrected.

Diefenbaker looked up at Fraser with a whine of complaint, and Fraser stared him in the eye, enunciating clearly, “Keep that up, and no pizza for dinner.” The wolf grumbled in complaint, lying flat on the floor with his head on his front paws, and Fraser stood upright, offering Castiel an apologetic smile.

Dean’s eyes flicked back and forth between Castiel and Fraser, studying the two figures facing each other as they stood stiffly by their charges. Suddenly, his entire body relaxed and he sat back in his chair, throwing Ray a tolerant grin.

“You’ve got one, too? I suddenly feel less special.”

“One what? A Mountie? They do kinda multiply around here.”

“Is that the codename?” Dean asked, his grin even wider. “I guess that makes sense, since they’re kind of the long arm of the law from way, way, _way_ up North.” He nudged his brother beside him, and snickered, “Mountie. Why didn’t we think of that?”

“What if he’s working with Zachariah?” Sam brought up, his face crumbling into worry. “That’s all we need right now.”

“Is Zachariah like your gang leader?”

“Our ‘Mountie’,” Dean said, enunciating the word clearly as he rolled his eyes in Castiel’s direction, “used to work for him, but now he’s working for us.” Dean kicked out a foot to get Castiel’s attention, “Right, ‘Mountie’?”

Castiel tore his gaze from somewhere over Fraser’s shoulder, making Fraser turn to see his father and John sitting cross-legged on the floor and playing a game of gin rummy, his father’s snowshoes now propped against the wall. Fraser carefully turned back to see if Mr. Castiel really had been watching two dead men play cards, only to see Mr. Castiel’s attention had shifted to Ray, lips pursed as if unsure of what to do with the small man standing before him.

“Look, if you’re a Mountie, you got no jurisdiction here. So hit the bricks and let us get these two booked before I die of old age.”

“I doubt you shall die of old age,” Castiel began. “If you detain them much longer, it is far more likely that you will be hooked and gutted by de-“

“Cas!” Dean interrupted with a curt shout as he tried to get to his feet, but was halted by his hands still cuffed to the table.

“We need to leave,” Castiel urged. “He fails to understand the significance of this delay.”

“Your boy’s ignorance is astounding,” came John’s voice from behind him.

“Sage words coming from a man who couldn’t tell a tupilak from a hole in the ground,” Fraser’s father replied.

“How many times do I have to tell you? It wasn’t a tupilak; it was a wendigo, and it was _dark_.” John’s voice was rising, making Fraser worry he would need to break up a fight between his dead father and his equally dead associate.

“Exactly.” Now Fraser’s father sounded pleased, and his cards slapped to the ground. “Gin.”

“Fraser!”

Fraser blinked at Ray’s loud voice in is ear, jumping slightly at the noise. “Yes, Ray?”

“Were you off huntin’ moose in your head again? We gotta wait t’go through the books with the back-up of felons today. Let’s go grab some lunch.” Ray opened the door, throwing a glare in the direction of the men at the table, waiting for Fraser to exit.

Dean gave Ray a teasing salute and settled back in his seat. “Bring us back a couple of cheeseburgers!”

When Castiel failed to follow, Ray arched his eyebrows towards his hairline and forcefully gestured him out the door. “You too, lawyer man. Can’t leave you in here with the suspects, right now. We’re short-staffed today.”

“How long will this take?” Castiel asked, the urgency obvious in his tone.

“Possibly days!” Ray told him cheerfully. “And that’s just to process them.”

Fraser turned to watch Mr. Castiel glance down at his charges with a confused expression, Dean nodding him towards the door with a pursed look on his face as if he’d just sucked on something sour.

It was the look that did it.

“Oh!” Fraser exclaimed softly. “Oh, dear.” 

                                                                                     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So what’s got your Underoos in a twist?” Ray asked as he hip checked the door to the main offices. Diefenbaker ran on ahead, following the scent of tuna fish coming from one of the officer’s desks.

“It’s nothing, Ray,” Fraser dismissed immediately. He hesitated for only a second before adding in explanation, “After all, he’s been dead for years.”

Ray stopped, squinting at Fraser in confusion. “Who in the what now?”

“Dead is a good alibi, don’t you think?” Fraser asked with a polite nod of his head at a passing female officer, ignoring the twin snorts of amusement he thought he heard behind him.

“You’re talkin’ crazy, Frase.”

“It’s a game my father and I used to play when he would come to visit my grandparents’ home. I believe you Americans call it Concentration; we’d flip the cards to match the faces to the crimes. I kept it up when I came to Chicago, but of course I focused on the fifty most wanted in the United States rather than just the top ten – ten isn’t much of a challenge. It’s a useful way to keep your memory sharp, Ray; you should really try it sometime.”

“Are you sayin’ you wanna play Memory with me?”

Fraser dipped his chin in polite acknowledgement of the sharp-featured man who held the front door of the police station open for them, his tip-tilted eyes twinkling with mischief as Fraser said, “Thank you kindly.” Diefenbaker turned his head to keep an eye on the man as he trotted out the door, taking an appreciative sniff of the stranger’s leg as he passed. As the door swung closed, Fraser got another whiff of that strange gamefowl scent he’d picked up before, but it was quickly cut off when the door snicked shut, leaving them on the busy street outside of the precinct.

As they continued walking down the street, Ray pressed again, “So, what’s the deal with the walk down Memory Lane?” He snorted at his own joke, his grin creasing the soft skin around his eyes as he glanced over at Fraser. “Get it?”

“Got it, Ray,” Fraser said absently, taking a moment to look over his shoulder at the door to the police station once more. “Does your precinct now keep poultry on site?”

“What?” Ray asked, as they crossed the street and headed towards Marcelli’s, pushing their way through the thickening lunch hour crowd.

“Perhaps a 4H Club recently toured the station?”

“I don’t think so, Frase,” Ray said, waiting for the punchline.

“Future Farmers of America?”

“Nooo….”

“The local chapter of the Audubon Society?”

“Is this a Canadian thing?” Ray asked, shaking his head at yet another of his partner’s quirks.

“Hhmmm,” Fraser hummed under his breath, pausing once more to look over his shoulder before continuing down the street with Ray. “As I was saying, I kept up the practice after coming to Chicago, and your two ‘ministers’ share a remarkable resemblance with two of the….”

It took a moment for Ray to catch on, still lost in the previous conversation. When it registered, he stopped in his tracks, eyes wide. “What the fuck, Fraser! You’re tellin’ me they’re Top Ten?!” Ray turned around, grabbed at Fraser’s sleeve, and sprinted back towards the station house.

Fraser spun on his boot heel and easily kept up, adding, “Of course not, Ray. Top Twenty for a few months after the serial killings and the bank robbery, but they’re both deceased due to an explosion at….”

“Did those two look deceased to you?!” Ray demanded, darting around an older lady and a little boy on a bicycle. Diefenbaker yipped excitedly, putting on some speed to beat them back to the station.

Ray slammed to a stop on a street corner when a firetruck and several police cars went roaring by, fidgeting from foot to foot at the delay.

“They appeared very much alive,” Fraser agreed, “but do you believe your Federal Bureau of Investigations could make such an error?”

“You’ve met Ford and Deeter, right?” Ray asked, as if that were explanation enough.

“Oh, dear,” Fraser replied, sprinting past Ray.

Only a minute later they slammed through the front door of the 27th precinct, Ray shouting breathlessly at the desk sergeant, “Where are my suspects?”

“Which suspects?” the man asked with a yawn. “You’ve gotta be a little more specific, Kowalski.”

“Eddie Clarke and Phil Taylor!”

“The rhythm guitarist and drummer from Motorhead?” The officer shuffled some papers on his desk before saying, “A Fed just came and picked them up with their lawyer, a Mr…uh…Cashtiel?”

“Castiel,” Fraser corrected helpfully.

The desk sergeant glanced at Fraser and then back at the papers. “Yeah, whatever. They’re gone.”

“How the hell did the Feds know they were here? And how did they get the paperwork through so damn fast?” Ray demanded. “The computers are down!”

“Not anymore,” the sergeant shrugged. “And the Fed came with the paperwork already completed.” He moved some more papers around, grumbling, “Now where did I put it? He was a short, squirrely guy. Gave me some peanut brittle.” He smiled and reached for the brightly colored can, adding, “I’d share, but I don’t like you, Kowalski.”

Diefenbaker propped his paws on the desk in hopes of a treat, watching the officer pry off the cap. The man fell out of his seat with a gruff shout of surprise when then ‘snake’ exploded out of the can, his waving arms sending his pile of paperwork flying off of his desk. Diefenbaker walked his way around the counter and snuck his nose inside of the can, whining in disappointment when he found it empty.

Ray and Fraser glanced at each other before running for the door, pushing their way through the crowd until they reached the edge of the street and stared in either direction for a sign of the three men. Upon catching no sign of them, Ray turned to stare at Fraser and said, “They’re the Feds’ problem now.”

“But, Ray, don’t you think….”

“No, Fraser, I don’t think. There’s no paperwork, because there was no crime. You said it - water is free, right? So there’s no trace that they were ever in our hands. I repeat, not our problem.”

“That’s unethical, Ray,” Fraser said with a frown.

“No, Fraser, that’s the law,” Ray replied with a grin, and Diefenbaker woofed in agreement. “How about we go grab that lunch?  
 

  
  



End file.
